


Singing You To Shipwreck

by Oodles



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games), Dark Souls III
Genre: M/M, the flow of time itself is convoluted, what is a dream? what is reality? what is dark souls?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2019-03-12 23:04:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13557474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oodles/pseuds/Oodles
Summary: The dreams are becoming so vivid and so real, they cannot be ignored. Clearly some being is attempting to make contact, and it frightens him. Who has enough power to infiltrate the Dark Sun’s own consciousness?





	Singing You To Shipwreck

_ What is the illusion, fair prince— the flesh, or the scales? Perhaps he wears the skin of man to hide his true form? Or, maybe he dons the armor of beasts in order to keep that true form safe inside. How can one perceive the master of tricks and deceit? When I dream of you, all I see is what rumors have provided. Taking a needle and thread to spellwork, attempting to glean the shape of moonlight. I cannot pin you down.  _

Gwyndolin awakes with a start. Another nightmare, another day lost. Anor Londo is crumbling beneath him. He cannot possibly keep it held together, not with his focus split between waking life and these incessant dreams. His precious warriors patrol the empty corridors and echoing chambers that used to be the most glorious city of the Gods— his family, his home. The dreams are becoming so vivid and so real, they cannot be ignored. Clearly some being is attempting to make contact, and it frightens him. Who has enough power to infiltrate the Dark Sun’s own consciousness? 

Perhaps Gwyndolin’s own power has weakened from the sheer force of will it takes in order to bathe this hollow city in sunlight. He keeps his silver knights and his creatures and his guardians alert. He keeps the image of his own sister alive in a near-treasonous attempt to keep those undead at bay. And, of course, he keeps himself hidden, dutifully out of sight. This place is his to  _ protect _ , not to rule. He will die here, he knows, whether by the blade of some self-aggrandizing hero, or under the weight of his own lies. 

 

 

_ Hush, Prince, do not fear. It is not my intention to scare, and yet, you resist me with every inch. You do not even know me. I could be a friend. You will not know by shutting me out— _

Gwyndolin clutches at his chest. Adrenaline courses through him, but he is proud of his strength. To be able to pull away from a dream like that is no easy feat. As he lies in his bed, he closes his eyes again. A sheen of cold sweat clings to him. He has silenced this voice for now, and he makes a decision to ward off sleep for as long as possible. He is a God. Surely sleep is not needed. 

So he tells himself, day in and day out, maintaining such elaborate tapestries. Guilt chips away at him as he uses it on his own former protectors. The leonine knight, once so proud, now forced to fight alongside the cannibal pretender, both of them driven mindless by that shred of soul inside them. Gwyndolin sometimes watches these battles take place, wondering who will be strong enough to defeat them. These undead, so relentless, trying to take this place away from him. It hurts to see them try so recklessly. They do not know what they disturb. 

It is when Gwyndolin finds himself in the false chamber of Gwynevere, talking with his own illusion, that he realizes how very deeply lonely he is. Sometimes, he considers what would happen if he simply left, like she did ages ago. Who would miss this place? His family is not coming back. Gwyn is dead, his brother banished, and his sisters tucked away in distant cities. 

_ Why do you cling to this skeletal land? There are other places in the world, fair prince. Places that won’t bury you in their spires. Talk to me. Tell me why you resign yourself to such a lovely cage? Who commanded you here? _

_ I command myself. _

_ Ah, so he  _ can _ speak.  _

Gwyndolin calmly opens his eyes, the usual fear no longer tangled up in his blood. He is not even in his bed, but leaning on the parapets outside of his chambers. His false sun shines upon him, and he feels something like curiosity. 

He closes his eyes again. “Who are you?”

A voice rises up from Gwyndolin’s own mind.  _ I am but an observer.  _

“Liar,” Gwyndolin speaks to the endless day, though he is not accusatory, merely stating a fact. 

_ So be it.  _ The voice seems amused, and Gwyndolin bristles at the thought of being toyed with.

“Out with it,” Gwyndolin demands. “Why do you spy on me? What heresies do you plan?”

_ None, fair Prince, _ the voice soothes, and Gwyndolin grips the stone banister. 

“You are bold,” Gwyndolin mutters. “To lie so calmly to the Dark Sun.”

_ Oh, but I am not calm at all, _ the voice goes on.  _ It is an honor to finally hold an audience with you.  _

“Do not waste your opportunity then,” Gwyndolin challenges. “Tell me why you have sought me out.”

_ Hmm _ , the voice murmurs inside him.  _ But it is  _ you _ who sought _ me _ , fairest Prince.  _

Gwyndolin startles, all concentration lost, and he leans forward as if a great weight has been dropped upon him. This voice is twisted and barbed, clearly. Not one to be trifled with. Gwyndolin resigns himself to be stronger and resist this intrusion. Loneliness is no excuse to be drawn away from his duty. He is this city’s last protector. The last one willing to keep that fire going. When Lord Gwyn left — so long ago — he took all the light with him. It did not take long for hope to follow. Gwyndolin watched the city slowly empty of all its old inhabitants. He knew, of course, that when Gwyn did not return, his father had succeeded in his attempts to maintain their age of fire… but at what cost? Anor Londo, the city of the Gods, has not seen true sunlight since this supposed victory. Gwyndolin is cold now, no warmth in his illusions or in his own legs. He is fighting against time. 

_ What will the young God do if he cannot find that precious chosen one to follow in the Lord Gwyn’s steps? Will the Dark Sun link the fire himself? Does he possess the strength?  _

Gwyndolin sways, left hand reaching out for the wall to brace himself. “How dare you.”

_ So the Prince does have a plan? Or will he let the fire fade whilst searching for this hero of death and ash?  _

Gwyndolin makes a fist and tries to right himself. There is sound rising up around him, a terrible hissing sound that he cannot control. It shakes him to his core, fills him with venom. 

_ Is it fear that roots him to the spot?  _

“Stop it,” Gwyndolin’s voice quavers, and it is the sound of a hand pressing gently on cracked glass. 

_ He feels weak. He feels bound.  _

“Do you take pleasure in my failures?” Gwyndolin’s voice is strained and weary. He’s not sure how his hands wound up on the cold floor. He is being pulled down, through stone and earth and death and life. His vision quakes and goes black. It feels as though something is filling his lungs.

_ Imagine for a moment, dear Prince, _ the voice begins softly.  _ You find yourself in a church. _

Gwyndolin gasps and is surprised when he doesn’t immediately drown. Instead, a rush of clear cool air bolsters him. 

The voice rises a little louder.  _ Not your church, of course, but mine.  _

Torchlight edges around Gwyndolin’s vision, resolving some of the darkness into shapes. People mill around him, but none seem to take notice. Finally, Gwyndolin takes in the sight of the aforementioned church, wooden pews facing the front of the space. He quickly rises, embarrassed at his own disheveled position on the floor. He brushes his cloak reflexively, needing to be presentable even as he realizes that these people are not paying him any mind. 

Gwyndolin can feel the lack of natural light like a film over his skin. He’s never been so cut off from the sun  _ and _ the moon. It is oppressive. Self conscious, he glides out of the way and into the pew nearest to him. The snakes at his feet feel restless and skittish. A cloaked figure takes the empty space beside him, and Gwyndolin makes a silent request to stay calm. 

When the voice speaks again, it is directly next to him.

“The sun does not reach everyone,” the hooded figure says. 

Gwyndolin casts a sideways glance. The figure doesn’t face him, and Gwyndolin can make out a strong nose and jaw under the hood. 

“Sometimes, people need something more relatable to worship.”

It is undoubtedly the same voice that has been speaking to him in dreams. Gwyndolin folds his hands in his lap. “So what do sunless people pray to?”

“The deep,” comes the response. 

Gwyndolin stares now at him, mouth poised to ask a question, but someone clears their throat and his attention is brought to the front of the room where a man in red robes stands. He begins to lead the people in a sermon. He speaks softly, but Gwyndolin can make out every word. It is talk of darkness: how, when one lacks fear, one can peer into the depths of the world and see life reflected back. That strength of mind and soul will allow you to pull wisdom from this entity.  _ Do not be afraid, _ the cleric says with a kind smile,  _ for there is no light without darkness. _

The people listening seem comforted by these words. Gwyndolin finds himself curious, attuned to a form of darkness, but nothing like this. He drops his gaze down to his pale hands. They have been cold lately, almost as cold as his legs had become. 

“This way,” the figure says, standing up and gesturing for Gwyndolin to follow. They silently leave the sermon, the stranger leading the way. Gwyndolin doesn’t question where they are going.

“Did you know, Prince of the Moon,” the hooded figure says. “There is warmth, even in the depths?”

Gwyndolin stares at the back of the man’s hood as he whispers, “It has been a long time since I felt warmth.”

“I know,” the man speaks to soothe. “I suffer it too. A chill so deep that it begins to change you.”

“But if the first flame continues to be linked—” Gwyndolin starts, his old mantra quick on his lips. 

“How long do you think sacrifices will present themselves? Another century? Two? That’s nothing for someone such as yourself. And tell me, what will you do in that time of waiting?”

Gwyndolin straightens his posture. “My duty.”

“Yes, your steadfast loyalty to that husk of a city.” The man comes to stop at a balcony overlooking an underground lake of sorts. There are stone bridges across the waters, and people walk together along the paths. This place is like a beautiful labyrinth to Gwyndolin, the hushed atmosphere nothing like the silence of Anor Londo— instead, a revential hum that permeates the cavern. Gwyndolin comes to stand beside the stranger, hands resting gingerly on the banister. 

“How long have you felt invisible?” the man asks. 

“Tell me something about yourself, and perhaps I will answer,” Gwyndolin counters. “I am tired of you knowing more than you should.”

“Hmm,” the man considers. He reaches for his hood, hesitates a moment, and removes it. What Gwyndolin sees is hair black as the night sky, long and unruly but not undignified, eyes a deep brown, only a shade or two lighter than the man’s own skin tone. His jaw is wide and strong, more suited to a warrior than the spellcaster Gwyndolin had thought him to be. There is something reckless in his gaze, a wildness that contrasts the soothing tone of his voice. He gives off an air of impulse in the curve of his full lips. But Gwyndolin knows an illusion when he sees one. 

“You hide from me,” Gwyndolin says, aware of the way this must sound coming from the man whose own face is half-hidden in gold. 

“Ironic, isn’t it?” The man smiles. “This is a true version of me, my past self. I fear you would not much like my present form.” 

“At least give me a name,” Gwyndolin asks. 

He nods. “I am called Aldrich. I was once a saint, once a cleric, once a man.”

“And now?” Gwyndolin asks.

Aldrich moves closer, and Gwyndolin can’t help but react, the snakes hissing around them. The other man pauses, not daring to challenge the serpents. 

“We undergo transformations in our own ways,” he says. “Some more literal than others.”

Gwyndolin starts to feel a weakness in his limbs. The room is blurring and spinning. He reaches out blindly to steady himself, catching Aldrich’s arm. He cannot fully focus on the man’s face, only glimpsing a smile full of teeth.

“I cannot keep you here forever,” Aldrich says. “But you may call upon me if you wish.”

Gwyndolin blinks, and everything vanishes, replaced once again by the empty hallways of his home. 

 

 

Gwyndolin tells himself he does not need such a distraction. He has no idea what this Aldrich means for him, but it cannot be good. What lengths he has gone to in order to find someone to keep the fire going, and to preserve his precious city. How many more undead will he send on that path?

And for what?

He is so cold. Sometimes he awakens from a dream and searches his arms and hands for scales, relieved to find flesh. The question that Aldrich dared to ask of him remains branded in his mind. 

_ How long have you been invisible? _

Gwyndolin shudders at the thought. Has he ever truly been seen? His now-banished brother was one of the few people to grant him respect. And what did they do when his brother left? After they erased his name from history, removed every likeness of the eldest son. They left that emptiness as an example, rather than grant Gwyndolin a place beside his father and sister. It was only after Gwyn left that Gwyndolin had the strength to live as he wanted to, only to watch the city wane in Gwyn’s absence. 

It set a chill into his bones. It made him weak. His legs struggled on some days to carry him out of bed. He thought he was dying for a time, until he discovered tears in his very flesh. Gwyndolin had spent an evening peeling away dead skin from his legs and feet, uncovering scales beneath. Only after he had granted those snakes air was he able to pick himself up again and carry on. By then, the castle had been nearly deserted and Gwyndolin did not pay any mind to the lingering stares he garnered. He was the last royal left, the last God, and they did not dare speak a word of this transformation. Gwyndolin pretended as if it hadn’t happened, as if he could still feel things as he once did, as if he had control over anything at all. He began to build his army of illusions and set about honoring his father’s precious sacrifice.

It is all he has left. 

Standing in his chambers, Gwyndolin studies his truest reflection in a pane of glass. The snakes writhe in displeasure at such scrutiny, and Gwyndolin’s own yellowish eyes stare back. It was the first thing that ever changed about him, and why they fashioned him such a heavy crown. Hide the hideous eyes of the pretend daughter, of the false son. 

Now, he feels he is only biding his time before the scales keep spreading. How much colder will he become? How long will he retain his sanity? Once this serpentine transformation is complete, will he lose himself entirely? Or will he be stuck within this foreign, scaled body, watching as something else takes control of him? 

Gwyndolin thinks for a moment about what it would mean to travel to the kiln. Perhaps it would feel good to throw himself into that great fire. He would rather his skin turn to ash and dust than to cold leather. 

When Gwyndolin thinks of his father — how Gwyn was before he set out to rekindle the flame — Gwyndolin thinks of a man of strength, possessed by fear. The humans irked him, and he clung desperately to his own power. Gwyndolin knew what disastrous things had been done in order to fix this before Gwyn left— the Bed of Chaos was evidence of that. Gwyn knew that sacrifice was necessary, and there was bravery in that, but also lack of foresight. 

Only Gwyndolin remains now, grasping for purchase against smooth stone. Should he try? Should he leave everything behind and succeed his own father in fire? Perhaps another soul of a god will be enough to keep this world going for centuries more. 

_ Imagine, fair Prince… _

Gwyndolin shudders, hand touching the glass in front of him, breaking his own reflection apart.

_ A duty that is not your own _ .

Gwyndolin’s head throbs with this presence. He touches his face, closes his eyes and tries to ward off the impending scene. He is not ready, not when he is so exposed, no crown to hide behind. 

_ I was not ready either _ , Aldrich speaks in his mind. 

Some of the fear ebbs and Gwyndolin lets his breath out slowly. He opens his eyes again, taking in the scene of a man in holy garb, facing away from him. He is praying to a figure draped across a bed. The praying man turns to Gwyndolin, and Aldrich’s face takes shape again. 

“Some demonized me for the visions of darkness that I experienced,” Aldrich says. “A man should not have been able to perceive such things.”

“But neither should a God linger on the dark,” Gwyndolin said back. 

“Never a God myself,” Aldrich nods once and turns back to the body in the bed. “But some people believed me to possess great strength.” He approaches what Gwyndolin can see is a sickly young man, eyes shut, breathing pained and wheezing. His fingers uncurl in Aldrich’s direction. “They left their teachings in favor of my sight. And they offered to me what little they had.”

Aldrich touches the young man’s hand, and something like comfort shudders through his frail body. It is clear from the way the man gazes at Aldrich that he respects him. The sickly man speaks softly and Gwyndolin is barely able to make out the words. “You’ll be great one day…”

Gwyndolin doesn’t speak, studying the overwhelmed look on Aldrich’s face, guilt tinged with love in the other man’s eyes. “They wanted me to consume of them what I could.” Aldrich takes a deep breath, eyes sliding shut. “I learned to leave nothing behind.”

Aldrich opens his mouth, farther and farther. The scene begins to fray at the edges, colors blending and shapes blurring. Gwyndolin is stuck staring at Aldrich’s jaw appearing to unhinge amidst the chaos of the vision. Everything twists and Gwyndolin feels as though he’s being spun in circles, almost nauseous from it, until the room starts to settle again. Aldrich is gone, and instead Gwyndolin is standing before a rather understated throne. Carved from grey stone, flat with few decorations. Not a God’s throne, not even a king’s. It sits empty. 

“I did what they asked of me,” Aldrich speaks again and Gwyndolin whirls around to find the source of the voice. Behind him there is a dark mass on the floor that Gwyndolin can’t quite distinguish from shadow. It is large, larger than several bodies tangled together. 

“I consumed everything they provided.”

Gwyndolin feels some energy coming from this dark stain on the floor, but he doesn’t want to approach to find out why. 

“I grew so hungry,” Aldrich goes on. 

Gwyndolin blinks, searching the room again for any other signs of life.

“Bloated beyond sense.”

When he looks back at the living shadow, he catches movement, like it is spreading toward him. Gwyndolin’s instinct is to back away, but he remembers that this is not real. He holds steady.

“It mattered not what they fed me. Only how often.”

“Why did you keep eating?” Gwyndolin asks, disliking the quiet tone of his voice. “If it held no purpose?”

Aldrich makes a noise, a strange displeased sigh. “My eyes and ears and throat did not work, but I could still see. The more I consumed, the more I  _ saw _ . Visions of a different world. An old world. But I was unable to parse out the meaning, so I kept eating. Until of course, my strength betrayed me.”

Gwyndolin’s eyes searched the outlines of the  _ thing _ on the floor, and the horrendous way in which it seemed to be dragging its own weight around. It reaches out as if searching for something.

“When the world began to grow dim,” Aldrich spoke anew, as if delivering his own sermon to Gwyndolin. “It was time for a new Lord to arise and link the fire.”

Gwyndolin’s brow furrowed as he realized what Aldrich was saying. “You are to travel to the kiln?”

“Ah,” Aldrich sighed with decidedly human amusement. “Sweet Prince. I already did.”

“You…” 

“But not of my own accord,” Aldrich went on. “They brought me there. They  _ made _ me a Lord in belief and fed me strength through sacrifice and then set me to flame when the time came. In the end, it does not matter if you are God or Man. All that matters to the world is precious light.”

A spark. Gwyndolin startles as he sees a fire growing at the edges of the room. Before he thinks to use this moment to study the  _ thing _ , the fire spreads so fast and so strong that the entirety of the room begins to burn. The black shape on the floor writhes as it is consumed without mercy or care. And rising around Gwyndolin— a chorus of a thousand screams. It is too much and Gwyndolin sinks down, covering his ears with his hands, but it does nothing to silence the shrieking. Through the piercing sounds of misery, one voice reaches out to Gwyndolin. Not one of pain, but one of deep sorrow. A voice that cries  _ not enough time _ .

And then Gwyndolin is alone, the creature and the fire gone. There is not even a scorch mark on the floor, no smell of smoke. Gwyndolin turns slowly, expecting the empty throne. What he sees is a massive, elaborate coffin, strung with the wax of a hundred melted candles. 

“Here lies Aldrich, Saint of the Deep,” the other’s voice is calm once again. 

“You are from another time,” Gwyndolin breathes. 

“Yes,” Aldrich admits. “A time when the fire had grown dim. And the mantle of Lord was forced upon me.”

“How are you able to speak to me now? If you were lost to fire?” 

Silence rings and Gwyndolin thinks the connection has been broken, until there is a sigh. “The desperation of man is greater even than the slumber of lords. Something has pulled me back. And now I am forced to live on with the memories of what I have done. I see the twisted cult that was once my church. I see creatures corrupted by my words. It is torture. I never wanted this title, but when it was over, I was grateful. I thought to myself… at least I do not have to keep this up. Perhaps now I can be at peace.”

Gwyndolin is quiet, studying the tomb before him. “But you’ve been forced into it once again.”

“There was a time when I thought to help people,” Aldrich says. “And now I see, this world we live in is a savage one. As long as there is light, Dark Sun, people will do anything to bask in it for just a little while longer.”

Gwyndolin looks away from the massive grave, down to the hem of his robes, concealing the twisted appendages. How is he any different? He clings to the light himself, sending hopeful undead after Gwyn’s legacy, exhausting himself just to keep the illusion of brightness as he remembers. 

“I lose you for now,” Aldrich speaks again. 

Gwyndolin looks up, frantic, as the tomb turns dark. “Wait.”

“We will talk again,” Aldrich tells him. “This I am sure of.”

Anor Londo comes back to Gwyndolin through a pane of glass. Back in his chambers, back to this life. Gwyndolin sighs, returning the crown to his head.

 

 

Wandering the city like a ghost, he wonders what the point of this self-inflicted mission is. It would not bring his family back to him. It would not bring him the connection he desired. Gwyndolin told himself that he had lost warmth with the sun, but the truth of it is that he had never had warmth to begin with. Aldrich’s words ring true. Gwyndolin watched his own father give everything just to preserve hierarchy. They thought the first flame brought illumination, but it seems all it ever did was breed betrayal. 

Exhaustion sinks through Gwyndolin’s body. He pauses his rounds, retreating to the halls below the great tower. For a moment, Gwyndolin imagines the whole castle shaking at its foundations. He thinks about fissures emerging in the stone, pieces breaking off. The sound of ancient architecture finally giving in. Gwyndolin imagines the whole of Anor Londo collapsing in on him, burying him and the memory of the Gods in a pile of chipped rubble. 

The world may be better off without such creatures. Maybe it is time for a new way of life— one not burdened by the fear of what cannot be seen.  

Gwyndolin is not ready to trust this stranger, but he is willing to listen. Settling into his bed, he closes his eyes and speaks. 

“Do you have something to say to me other than painful truths?” 

A sensation like rising water surrounds him. Gwyndolin has the urge to hold his breath, but he resists, exhaling steadily through. 

Aldrich responds calmly. “Have you considered, dear Prince, an age without flame?”

“The depths you worship?” Gwyndolin asks. 

“Something like that,” Aldrich says. “Open your eyes.”

Gwyndolin does, and finds himself in utter and complete darkness. He sits up, the comfort of his bed replaced by the feeling of something softly carrying him downstream, yet he is dry and still. Upright, he clasps his hands together and searches for any kind of light. 

“I was told stories of the Abyss,” Gwyndolin says. “Is it the same thing as the deep?”

“No,” Aldrich responds, and his voice is somehow all around Gwyndolin. Despite this impenetrable darkness, Gwyndolin does not feel cold at all. He feels something that he hasn’t felt in ages. His own legs, no longer numb and alien, but as they once were. His body feels strong, energized by this strange atmosphere. 

“The Abyss seeks corruption and chaos,” Aldrich explains. It feels as though Gwyndolin is being warmed at a hearth. “The Deep seeks life.”

Gwyndolin closes his eyes, no difference at all in his vision. “Can darkness be as full as light?”

“Perhaps more so,” Aldrich responds. “For one cannot see what it conceals. Darkness is infinite. It stands to reason that, buried in the depths, one could find anything. Life, birth, restoration.”

Gwyndolin feels heat all around, like warm breath. 

“As long as one does not succumb to fear, the Deep will respond in kind.”

The voice is directly behind him now. Gwyndolin has the urge to turn and face it, but he knows he will not see anything. So he remains still. 

“I know it is a fool’s errand to keep that fire burning,” Gwyndolin admits. 

“What does the God of the Dark Sun have to be afraid of?” Aldrich asks. 

Something is touching Gwyndolin’s back. He stays put. He’s not sure anymore if his eyes are open or shut. He is starting to lose sense of where he ends and the darkness begins. 

“Even the moon has light to give,” Gwyndolin says. “No matter how pale.”

“Is it light you seek?” Aldrich speaks low and Gwyndolin can feel pressure on his shoulder. “Or heat?”

Gwyndolin feels his body take shape abruptly as two hands are laid softly on his back. 

“I once saw visions of a pale girl,” Aldrich speaks low. Fingers trace Gwyndolin’s spine with care, as if Aldrich is creating each curve then and there. “Hidden away under the guise of protection. But she yearned so desperately to be seen. She was trapped and, unbeknownst to her, all of that emptiness she felt created such powerful energy.”

Gwyndolin’s voice dies in his throat. Aldrich touches the small of his back where previously there had been an ugly union of scales and flesh, now just soft skin. 

“Time and again, I felt her longing, but I was powerless to help. Her desperation compelled me. But the longer I watched, the more I understood. Not a girl at all, but a Prince, and a God at that. So lost, and so very cold. His power reaching out of its own accord, seeking some unknown consolation.”

Hands dare to circle Gwyndolin’s middle and something brushes his ear. “The light had done him no good at all.”

Gwyndolin could hardly stand how lovely it felt to be this warm, this close. And how very wrong it should have been. This so-called saint is still a stranger, and no deity. Gwyndolin is above that, should have had no reason to be so tempted. But when he feels a hand caress his jaw, he wonders for a moment.

“Is this what you’ve been seeking?” Gwyndolin asks. 

“I sought to help that pale figure,” Aldrich says. “I wanted to ease their pain. That unending chill. I want to give you warmth.”

“Do you have any left to give?” Gwyndolin asks, shamelessly allowing this closeness, tilting his head a little to encourage Aldrich’s hand against his cheek.

“On my own, perhaps not. But together…”

Gwyndolin was starting to ache at this possibility. Together. Could they really experience something like that? These two broken beings?

Aldrich sighs. “In all my time in the church, I never imagined being so close to a God.”

“What have you done to earn this place?” Gwyndolin asks. “A man should not be able to hold my shadow.”

“I gave up humanity long ago,” is the response, and it should have been unsettling, frightening even, but to Gwyndolin, it comes as a relief. “Now… I can only grasp at it through dreams.”

“So this is a dream?” Gwyndolin asks, both disappointed and hopeful at the prospect. 

“Perhaps,” Aldrich says. “Or perhaps we have found a place where time doesn’t matter. Perhaps you and I bear no titles here and that is why we may walk as men.” 

“A lovely thought,” Gwyndolin says, leaning back into the body behind him. Solid arms support his weight. “What would you do in such a space, if it were true? Would you consume me as well?”

“There are many ways to enjoy someone, fair Prince,” Aldrich responds. 

Unseen fingers turn Gwyndolin’s head, and through the impossible dark, Gwyndolin feels lips against his face, painfully gentle, far too considerate. 

“I am in hiding no longer,” Gwyndolin says. 

The hands grip him tighter. Aldrich takes a deep breath before spinning Gwyndolin around and cupping his face. It is a whirlwind of movement, made all the more dizzying by his lack of sight. But Aldrich holds him steady. Gwyndolin burns pleasantly with every touch.

“Join with me, as if we were mortals,” Aldrich breathes. 

Gwyndolin smiles, reveling in the freedom of this true dark. He sees now why someone may revere such a thing. 

“Let me worship you, as a God deserves,” Aldrich says, voice low, body pressing in against Gwyndolin’s. Hesitance long abandoned, Gwyndolin slides his hands up Aldrich’s chest, unsurprised, pleased, to find it bare. His arms wrap around Aldrich’s neck and he leans closer, finding Aldrich’s mouth with his own. 

“Show me,” Gwyndolin says. “While this dream is ours.”

Their next kiss is not so calm, but Aldrich takes his time. Gwyndolin had always wondered how mortals loved, but at the hands of the saint, he remembers that neither of them would know that answer. What they do is their own, spurred on by unanswered questions and the forgiveness found in the Deep. 

 

 

When Gwyndolin opens his eyes, he is back in his bedchamber. His whole body sings from the memory of Aldrich’s touch— and the snakes are docile. Even if it wasn’t real, how good a dream it was. 

Gwyndolin rises, dresses himself as if he were to greet his subjects, makes the rounds of his empty city. He spends hours fastening a new illusion, one that lives at the bottom of the city, beneath the tower, concealed behind a once-lovely statue, and bids it farewell. 

He decides it is time to let go of this mission. It is foolish to continue the search for another chosen undead. The fire will always be fading and there will always be others searching for sacrifices. It does not need to be Gwyndolin any longer. He was never fit to link the fire himself. Why should it consume him so?

Gwyndolin dispels many of his warriors, and retreats to the once-beautiful hall of Anor Londo, the snakes growing restless and suspicious of him. He sinks to the floor between the broken columns, offering a prayer to his lost family. 

“I do not judge you for your fear,” he speaks softly. “But it is time for us Gods to fade away. We are more useful as legends than rulers. Perhaps man will see further in the darkness.”

He allows himself a brief moment to mourn. For the father, lost to flame, and the sisters, faraway, and the brother plucked from history. Most of all, Gwyndolin mourns for who he could have been. Not this scaled fusion of man and God and sorrow, but a great God of Sunlight. Only for a moment, Gwyndolin sheds tears for the world he lost. 

The memory of pure warmth he felt surrounded by darkness allows him to compose himself. Eyes closed, he imagines a river, a lake, an ocean. Something to swallow him whole. As he sits, ruminating, he lets go of one more illusion. The light streaming in from the windows begins to fade, bathing the room in a dim blue shade. The snakes settle down around him, laying on the cool stone. Gwyndolin opens his eyes, finally feeling as though he fits into this place. The statues of his father and sister stare past him with empty eyes, and the pedestal where his brother once stood seems to ring in the silence. Those three needed sunlight, but Gwyndolin knows now where he belongs. The nighttime always suited him better. 

“A beam of moonlight, as beautiful and as powerful.”

Gwyndolin sighs. “Do I want to know how long I’ve been sitting here?”

“A day,” Aldrich says. “Or perhaps a century.”

Gwyndolin smiles. “I suppose it no longer matters.”

There is a sound like rushing water and stirring bodies. “You let go.”

“I don’t need them,” Gwyndolin answers. “And they don’t need me. Gods belong in myth, don’t you agree?”

The noise grows louder. Gwyndolin remains facing the statues. 

“Man should be kept at a distance,” Aldrich says. 

“But where does that leave me?” Gwyndolin asks. “A locket, tucked away in a tomb, waiting to become a distant memory?”

“You are much more than a locket, dearest Prince,” Aldrich soothes, his voice still approaching. “You are something to cherish, something to savor.”

Gwyndolin brushes his hair — when did it grow so long? — away from his neck. The crown feels lighter than it used to. And the snakes lay coiled, silent, around Gwyndolin’s waist. 

“Will the Saint keep me company?” Gwyndolin asks. “Does he know what comes next?”

“I see visions of darkness, and of deep, deep waters.” 

Something is inching up on either side of Gwyndolin, what looks like liquid shadow, but, no, it’s thicker than that. Comfort fills Gwyndolin’s body, knowing what it is now not to be alone. 

Gwyndolin closes his eyes once more. Pressure at his back, something like many, many hands caressing him. The blackness flows around the snakes, and they are still as they sink into the mass, absorbed entirely. Gwyndolin feels like he is being bathed in warm water. Enveloped in the strange thickness of what Aldrich has become, Gwyndolin feels his senses shifting, expanding throughout the room, pushing out to the edges of this new body. It feels heavy and slow, but also infinite. 

“Is this how the Saint shows his devotion?” Gwyndolin asks.

“Ever faithful to you,” Aldrich whispers, and the voice carries through Gwyndolin’s entire body. “My God of Darkness.”

Gwyndolin rises, or perhaps Aldrich lifts him, he is not able to tell the difference. They hold still, bathed in a patch of moonlight. The God and the Saint breathe together. Memories flow between them, consciousness blurring, but it doesn’t frighten. It feels as though a spark has been cast, and soft breath encourages the coals. 

Gwyndolin turns to the window, to the pearl of the moon in the sky. “What will happen when that fire goes out?” 

“I do not know,” Aldrich responds. “But allow me to keep you warm until that time comes.”

Gwyndolin nods. “Together, then.”

**Author's Note:**

> This piece would not have happened without the encouragement of a dear bud!! Thank you!!  
> Come bug me on twitter if ya like :) @oodleswrites


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